


Sheltered

by fiammy



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amputation, Disability, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more as I go, Internal Conflict, Mild Language, Post-Canon, Recovery, but so far i think that's all, medical procedures that might/might not be triggering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiammy/pseuds/fiammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's hid it very well, but the recent events (specifically: his uncalled for amputation and damage to his knees that's left him pretty much paralyzed) have been far too much for the Varia Boss to bear. Wanting to take matters into his own hands, he follows through with the best plan in his mind. </p><p>Running away.</p><p>(Takes place a while post-manga-canon, lots of ocs, really just a fic about growth and healing and healthily developed/dealt with relationships)</p><p>Sometimes, to find what you really need, you have to lose something first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Difficult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For you._   
>  _Thank you for being such a great fellow writer and friend. This is just as much your hard work and passion as it is mine._

Xanxus was, although the term was clearly an understatement, difficult.

This quality fluctuated frequently; it did, however, show a pattern, being more of a problem for the people who knew him after ‘incidents’ marked the timeline of the Boss’ life and less of one after the negative feelings surrounding them subsided. Most people assumed these to be things like his adoption, his discovery of the truth, the fight with that brat Sawada Tsunayoshi... But they weren’t so _broad_. Xanxus was a specific man, and as such his thoughts and feelings were anything but relatable. To name some of the times that he actually considered to be life changing incidents: the unquenchable thirst for something more no matter how much favor he gained; his unstable state of mind during the period he _stayed_ in the Vongola Manor despite the truth about him; the bitter defeat—not against the true heir, but against himself, who had refused to admit he knew how this would turn out from the start—

Unfortunately, however, these details were unknown to anyone but the man himself. And Xanxus was very much preferring that things stayed this way. To everyone else (although they were not entirely wrong), ‘incidents’ where Xanxus’ pride was cruelly chewed up and spat out again and again were frequent and Xanxus happened to be the sort of person that _never_ forgot or let go of anything— or, rather, it was some mysterious case of not wanting to or even an inability.

It wouldn’t be surprising for the third possibility to be true, since the most recent incident (in the way everyone else saw it, including Xanxus himself at first) left Xanxus unable to do a number of things as of present.

Sitting now in the same room he’s occupied for the past few months—to be precise, his lounge, where he often retreated from whatever antics his men had up their sleeves to get some peace of mind and the occasional beer, the hallway on the left side of the room leading to his private gym (unused for far too many days to count and at this rate, most likely going to remain so) and the one on the right, a large bathroom (but not as large as his demands)—the raven-haired squeezed his eyes shut, a headache adding itself onto the list of reasons why his body was aching _terribly_ right now. How long had this Varia grunt stammering in front of him about why the lunch awaiting the Boss on a trolley was late standing here? Their words were barely audible anyway, the chances of the rough screaming outside that filled the air being directed at more grunts that had probably screwed something up and thus earned themselves a berating by Squalo pretty high, as always. His eyes still closed in irritation, he reached beside him and grabbed the glass on the table beside him.

Nothing. _What?_ He reached out, again, beside him and grabbed the glass. Nothing again.

_Goddamn it—_

Xanxus’ _left_ arm folded over his chest as it moved to grab the glass off the table before throwing it swiftly at the grunt, shattering as a result of the impact against their forehead, and he stared with a clenched jaw and deeply furrowed eyebrows as they stumbled but caught themselves from falling before fleeing the room, his eyes going back to being closed in response to the growth of the howling outside. His legs, toes having pressed to the ground in an unconscious movement to keep his body stabilized as he threw the glass, throbbed and sent shudders up and down his spine.

He had never been a patient man, and whenever he felt even the slightest bit of patience within himself, it immediately wore thin. But in the duration of these past few months, he experienced something that seemed easily comparable to sitting in a cage with its door completely open, yet the bird he was bid his time, awaiting the right moment whatever it involved him doing, which was yet to be determined after so many days of contemplation.

Xanxus, additionally, believed in people having limits.

And his had been reached.

* * *

If one were to question a sample of the assassins in the Varia, there would be a consensual agreement on the fact that Squalo Superbi, surprisingly, swore on only some occasions in comparison to his Boss. And that in the instance he did, it was _considerably_ a lot more vulgar than the language that normally came out of the other party on a day-to-day basis. If the specific choice of words in some of those instances did not terrify some, it was definitely Squalo’s acidic tone, a combination of spitting, hissing, and speaking through teeth.

Very rarely, it was screaming.

The remaining four Varia officers flinched as their second-in-command, once again howled a single, exasperated profanity, before they were all met with his steel-hard gaze. Usually there would be frustrated sparks that couldn’t get themselves to light up in his eyes as a display of his rage, but the fact they were absent made him a lot more menacing. Even as he spoke, the tone of his voice was dangerously low. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

Silence. Squalo knew very well that none of the other officers were clueless—they took great pride in the fact they were geniuses—but that the reason behind none of them speaking was because they all knew they had differing answers that they would end up arguing about. Or enraging him further. “ _What_ ,” he began to repeat, though the repeating would most likely turn to more screaming as he would, indecently this time, pose the question again.

“Squalo,” Lussuria warned, although it was in vain and he knew it. “Calm down—”

“You’ve got _gall_ to tell me to— to—” he stammered, hands grasping at the air in front of him and clenching into fists, not because he was trying to restrain himself from cussing again nor because he couldn’t find the right words, rather he was on the verge of explosion; speaking of which, he did, lips curling back, baring his teeth as he swore. “—CALM DOWN, LUSSURIA!” The paper in his hands was surprisingly still held calmly, though he aggressively threw it onto the ground, lifted his foot to step on it, but thought better and turned with the heel of his other foot to storm out through the door. More silence filled the air, interrupted by the audible crashing of furniture and orders to get out of the way. Everything still felt like a dream. No one out of them remembered feeling this confused, and yet simultaneously awfully understanding of the situation. Mammon broke the trance in the lounge by kneeling down and picking up the paper. Nobody looked at it, despite being within range of reading it clearly; Mammon’s curse was also wearing off, and he’d surprisingly began to grow, but that wasn’t the current matter at hand— It wasn’t fake. And yet it made no sense at all that this paper should exist, that they should be the ones to find it, that _Xanxus_ of all people would be the one who’d written it.

Just a few days ago, their Boss was here, in this room. The Mansion was just as quiet as it would be if he was here. But he wasn’t, and not because he was working or visiting or doing any of the things he usually did, although he was now in a situation that prevented him doing any of those things, perhaps at all.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to. But because it was _him_ , the uncanny feeling of the action seeming somehow... _predictable_ coming from him, simply made the situation more confusing, enough for them to just stay standing.

322 miles and six provinces away, Xanxus sighed as his train slowly rocked to life, his view consisting of his luggage and the backs of the heads of other passengers sitting in the rows in front of him, the thin white line bordering the space secured for him, and the greenery fighting for space with the industrial buildings of the station; the fight was quickly in the former’s favor, however, as the train began to move, though it didn’t get his attention, since his eyes were fixed to his lap.

‘Don’t look for me,’ the paper read, in his scratchy and left-slanting print. He rarely wrote commands on paper, in fact rarely wrote at all, and when he did, the expectation that they be followed was no different than saying them with a charged gun in his hand. It said everything and nothing at all. A sentencing without a known crime.

‘Don’t look for me.’

Xanxus was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say from now, I’m really excited to share this. _Really_ excited. Maybe a little nervous too; this is the first time in a long time I’ve written a multi-chaptered fic, but the first time I write a publicly shared multi-chaptered fic with a proper plot. This has been in the works for little more than a year and- gosh, I’m too giddy to say anything right. I just wanted to be this chapter to be really subtle, I’m not sure if that’s the right word, but I hope I pulled it off. I’ll hopefully start on the next chapter in a few days, but, I’m more hopeful about the fact people are going to enjoy this. Seriously, there’s so much I’d like to say but, I suppose that’ll be saved for next time. Comments, opinions, the like; they're all appreciated!!


	2. Downpour

Many of the rather terrible stories Amelia Carelvaro read in her life began with people waking up. Not only was it cliché and incredibly discouraging for excited readers like herself to then _willingly_ complete the book, but also problematic in the sense that it brought on feelings of guilt for not giving a book (and author, no matter their level of originality) a chance and also of disappointment when said book grew worse as its story unfolded.

But she’d never heard of a story that began with someone still asleep. To be more specific, unconscious.

Up till then, she had been untroubled, the weight of the bag of groceries sliding to dangle from her elbow as she tucked some of her hair behind her ear before the bag slid back down onto her palm—clearly an absentminded action, as her hair was far too short to make such an action necessary anyway—anything but a problem to her; an advantage of living in a place as quaint as Perugia was how close everything was, her almost daily trips to the bakery consisting of merely minutes on her motorcycle, and trips to the grocery store weren’t a problem. She could just go as soon as she noticed a shortage in her household and never really be troubled by a large amount of bags. Presently, as the staccato of the rain above her umbrella muffled that of her boots against the smooth concrete ground beneath, a brief contemplation of how it was raining a bit more than it had through all of last week crossed her mind—

Then she saw it.

A gleam in the corner of her eye. Or perhaps it was the sudden silence after walking beside occupied houses and buildings, the murmurings inside faintly audible. Maybe even the sudden second of her boots _not_ squelching against a flooded pathway as she found herself underneath the large awning of a currently closed embroidery store. Looking around, Amelia saw nothing, and took a step back. A gleam in the corner of her eye again. Adjacent to the embroidery store was an alleyway she had never paid attention to—not to say she was ever aware of the fact there was an embroidery store on the path she took to her apartment—and perhaps she had seen it before, but her brain had repressed the memory, because it certainly looked unwelcoming. It was such an odd sight in a place like here, where the houses were so close together as if huddling in fear of something akin to what she was staring at now: isolation. She could have walked away. There wasn’t anything stopping her; she could have noted to herself as she went to bed that on this certain day, on her way home, she had discovered that there was an empty alleyway (all the other alleyways she’d seen in Perugia usually served as parking areas) adjacent to, another discovery, an embroidery store.

She did walk away. Though, that was only if walking away meant taking a few steps forward, pausing, putting her bag of groceries on the ground and going back to the alleyway. Otherwise, her curious yet hammering heart tuned out the voice of her rationale. Getting jumped or robbed was the last of her concerns, as she carried nothing on her person. To her, it always made more sense to memorize how much something cost, use simple math, and only bring the amount she needed to where she needed to be, perhaps with some extra in case. Additionally, she was not only generous and liked to tip, but eerily exact in her expenditure; she never left a store with change in her pockets. _Too much of a hassle_ , she’d tell herself. In any case, chills danced in Amelia’s bones as the cavernous dark enveloped her— the gleam revealed itself to be a small light bulb wedged inappropriately a meter and a half or so into the alleyway’s left wall, exposed to the elements above and causing the glass to glaze over and voltage to fail, although still capable of giving a weak flash occasionally. The puddles of water (although she wasn’t sure if she could still call them that, as they kept growing due to the lack of objects on the walls to block the pouring rain) reeked of smells she didn’t want to find the source of and were cold enough that she had to shake whichever one of her boots that stepped into one dry. Stopping in mild frustration and holding the umbrella tighter against her person, she blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust to the darkness and tried to ignore the berating of her mind as she only now began to question her decision to enter here, only for her eyes to widen as they found something amongst the blackness.

A wheelchair.

She blinked once, slowly, then again, with more force this time. It was lying flat on its side, the metal faintly glowing in the dim light. Of course, she knew it hadn’t appeared out of nowhere, as the alleyway stretched out towards a further wall in the distance that was connected to a corner, although her reasoning behind that fact was that more specifically that someone must have brought it here— which was a convenient and logical conclusion, as someone currently lay in front of it, face-down on the ground, along with what seemed to be a few bags.

_Oh._

Without question, she hastened over to the body—but should she refer to it that way? They weren’t...... Were they? No, she had to stop herself now—and knelt near it, making sure her umbrella shielded her and the head below her knees; she tried to spend at the very least a few seconds searching for anything that was an obvious and glaring injury without immediately resorting to touching them, but the brief thought of this person lying here for ages (although it had only begun to rain an hour ago) was terrifying. Fingers trembling slightly as she placed them on the person’s shoulder, she pushed briefly to allow more of their face to come to view; the result was a masculine face, her only visible hints to that being the presence of a buzz cut on the sides of the additionally sharp-featured and coarse-skinned face.

“Sir?” Her voice came out lower than it should have, and she repeated in a louder tone, once and then a few more times, each time adding in something that would hopefully aid in getting a response, such as the action of shaking his shoulder and the question of whether he could hear her or not. Nothing. Putting her knees onto the ground and kneeling as close as she could to his face while still able to keep the both of their heads shielded, Amelia found easy yet shallow breathing, and straightened up again. The streets in this part of Perugia were too narrow to accommodate cars, let alone an ambulance or a police car. Reception also worsened because of the weather. People would ideally help her if she went out and asked for it, but the concern over someone staying this long unprotected in the rain and the risk of illness rising with more time spent was the switch she needed flicked on in her mind to be prompted to take action; she couldn’t waste more time, could she?

Keeping the umbrella on the ground near the man’s head (she _had_ planned to take a shower at home, anyways; a bit of rain wouldn’t make a difference), she righted the wheelchair back onto a standing position, and it became immediately obvious how it fell over: part of the road in the alleyway unexpectedly rose, as if the bricks before that section were worn down with time or that the ones creating this rise were of a dramatically different thickness. Either way, it would have been impossible to see it in the dark, resulting in tripping, but her mind drew a blank on what the means to get over it would have been _along_ with luggage—which, after noticing, also raised off the ground and then stacked in a way that would be easy for her to drag with one hand: trolley bag up on the bottom with its handle up, duffle bag and purse-size messenger bag on top—if he hadn’t tripped. Which made sense. After all, she wasn’t a wheelchair user; she’d never even broken a leg to be familiar with one, although all the memories she had stored in her mind that involved broken limbs featured people she knew having broken either one or both their arms, or just one leg. Additionally, those in the latter category had used only crutches— _No time for distractions!_ _Focus._

Regardless of how sure she was about whatever train or flight this person had to catch being probably long overdue, she moved the luggage and chair over the problematic spot and onto stable ground, before looking down at the man and going through a minute-long cycle that consisted of: bending down and placing her hands on him in preparation for preforming an, after realizing, obviously awkward method of lifting him, feeling flustered for a second, then straightening up again and shuffling around him. Eventually after a few more tries, Amelia found that the best position was with him between her feet, which were each next to one of his hips, and her body squatted low as she now tucked her hands underneath his arms. Taking a deep breath—she didn’t know what to expect and wondered if that sufficed in terms of bracing herself—she lifted, and had to quickly fumble back with one of her feet for dry and flat footing to regain balance, as the man’s weight proved too much and his legs seemed to instantly buckle in response to his feet resting flat on the ground. With surprising but hasty swiftness, she managed to get him over and on his wheelchair, and dealt with a few seconds of lingering guilt after she awkwardly shifted and pushed him to make sure he didn’t flop forwards onto his lap before remembering the rain and groping for her umbrella; if the man woke up right now, she felt entirely deserving of a berating from him.

Except, he didn’t. Which made her feel even worse.

Sighing, she briefly stood with the umbrella over both of them again before she became aware that her plan of dragging his luggage with one hand and pushing his wheelchair with the other was terribly flawed, but then noticed a thick Velcro strap attached to the back; its location on the back of the wheelchair relative to the ground proved suitable for holding a large bag snugly, and if said bag had wheels, perfect. Ashamed of her confidence, she tucked the messenger bag next to the man’s thigh, slung the duffle bag’s strap over her shoulder (she once again thanked herself for not carrying a purse everywhere), then put the trolley’s handle down and pressed it to the wheelchair before bending low to secure the strap. Now truly prepared, she walked out, pushing carefully and slowly until she stopped in front of her groceries, which were still waiting for her under the awning of the embroidery store. She opened her mouth to sigh again, then thought better and kept it shut, picking the bags up and keeping them slung on the arm which also had the umbrella tightly held in it. Amelia had never been out of her house for this late, proven by the emptiness of the streets that wouldn’t have been different on a day where it wasn’t raining at this hour, and yet that didn’t matter, her attention instead on whether she had left the few towels in her possession outside to dry with her laundry in the balcony or not, and her heart grateful that her apartment complex had an elevator.

Minutes later, as she stood in that said elevator, dripping wet and rather squashed against the little space left for her that wasn’t occupied by the man and his belongings, she found herself staring at the mirror placed on the side of the elevator, trying to get as much of the man’s facial features as she could from this angle. Still unconscious, head hung low and hair flat against it... and yet his countenance peaceful. As if... he were subconsciously showing her his gratitude—an unrealistic, but heartwarming thought that was a pleasant change in the fearful ones that accompanied her previously—or that it was an implication that he might not have been entirely ‘present’ when he collapsed, the expression coming from the relief of momentarily escaping the cold...

With all of her heart, she hoped it was the former.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I want to give a big thank you to everyone who’s read so far, as well as left kudos! I also want to apologise for the time that’s passed, I would have started writing and uploaded this way sooner, but many things have gotten in the way. As for the length of chapters themselves, I still am not sure about that, as long as they need to be, I guess! School is starting soon for me, too, which.. actually means I’m more likely to upload at a _sooner_ rate? Who knows. Once again, thank you, and comments/shares are appreciated!  
> 


	3. Stranger

Usually, when people complained that Xanxus never seemed ‘present’ when talked to, it was justified; a lot of his thinking involved the past, more often than not re-living it. Personally, he wasn’t sure what he was trying to gain from doing so, as every detail was already known to him, and there wasn’t anything that his brain repressed or overlooked. Yet there was a comfort in that, considering how vague he considered himself, and how distrustful he was around the unknown.

So thirty minutes before it had started raining, he found himself in the alleyway, similar to one he had gone through once, as a child, and in both situations his body ached and swayed, exhausted from the journey and yet not anywhere close to his destination. In both situations, he had reached his limits, but couldn’t afford stopping— the reason why, though, deemed unimportant by his growing need for rest. So, another laborious step, laborious push of the wheels, mildly amazed by his own determination, thoughts slightly wandering to contemplate the body’s will to survive and momentarily finding contentment in just going through a straight path. He didn’t have any energy to turn corners or consider taking shortcuts, not at this point, at least. He also didn’t have any energy to notice in advance something in front of him that would make him trip and fall over, either.

It was strange, because, even when he hit the ground in less than a second, the falling sensation remained, his muscles helplessly relaxed despite his mind’s incessant commands to pull himself back up. Also because the feeling was so... familiar. At this point, it shouldn’t have been— not for the powerful person he was. People would expect him to always face things with strength and with a head held high, which to be fair, he _did_ , although never made it known that a small portion if not all of this strength was just a front. Considering how many situations he’d experienced with that power stripped away from him, falling in both hypothetical and literal senses and all what it entailed—such the realization of the weight of both his own body and the situation’s impact, the gravity and emotions pressing down on him with growing intensity, the stinging of his limbs, mind and heart followed by throbbing and then numbness, and the terrible cold and apathy spreading across him—was nothing new to Xanxus at all.

He was tired.

To someone who knew him, it would be the glassy look in his eyes that would stand out as unfamiliar in the countenance currently displaying mild frustration. Xanxus, despite his skill and experience, was a terrible liar, his own face not excluded from having that quality. It would seem to familiar people—thinking broader, anyone at all if they talked with him long enough—that he was good at masking whatever he was feeling, with the emotions he usually felt on a day-to-day basis: anger, annoyance, indifference... Only for people to be surprised once—and if; dense people did exist after all—they noticed his suppression, how obvious said suppression was. Could people tell _what_ he was truly feeling, though? Not really. The boss, despite being a failure at lying, had dabbled in enough psychology to at least put up enough walls to make whatever truths he had about himself vague, and sported a demeanor threatening enough to keep people from probing. Other unanswered questions, such as for what purpose he hid his feelings, or more importantly _why_ he felt a need to do so _,_ would be met with either violence or ignorance when posed, and consequently never asked. Because he was tired. Of hearing the questions. Of not answering them. Of many things. And they all came down to denying.

The pattering rain on his back came slowly at first, a casual warning despite starting anyway, a representation of his slowly fading consciousness—slipping through his fingers despite his rather pathetic efforts to contain it. He knew exactly what brought these feelings, this reckless action and permanent sensation of floating in lethargy on. Yet he ignored them, because he was tired. The truth was so glaringly obvious, and he didn’t want to look at nor think about it right now.

Presently, he just wanted a moment. Just a moment. To fade out of existence and feeling for a while. And now seemed like the perfect opportunity.

Xanxus closed his eyes.

* * *

As Xanxus’ consciousness kicked back into gear, the first thought that came to him wasn’t a command to wake up. It was an eerie realization, one his experienced intuition and suddenly heightened awareness allowed him to experience, that he was someplace else. His eyes snapped open.

A ceiling, a painting hanging on the wall adjacent to the location of his head, a white light— _ack!_ He squeezed them shut, although the brightness penetrated through his eyelids and filled his vision regardless, prompting him to keep his eyes closed for a while longer before attempting to open them again— one eye and a millimeter at a time to see the things he had again. Although, they were now followed by a sensation of being tucked in and warm... as well as terribly stiff; possibly from sleeping for hours. The raven-haired took advantage of the latter to only use his eyes for now, to not disturb anything in this strange environment while he still could, first glancing to the left and noting what he saw from closest to furthest: parts that made up the basic anatomy of a sofa (was he on a couch-bed? Seemed like it), a window with a small balcony out of it, and some bookshelves. Still skeptical, his gaze moved to the right.

A face.

Xanxus bolted upright, ready to shy away from and (if he had to) fight any possible danger— only to be stopped short then pushed back down while he clenched his jaw shut as pain stabbed him, dragged itself further than where it first pierced, elongating the torment. It was only when he was lying flat again that he found the strength to loosen up and breathe, however to inhale sharply in a wince, and the face he’d seen now had a voice.

“Ah! Oh, gosh, I’m _so_ sorry, I must have startled you,” Amelia, who had straightened up and away from the man, stammered briefly before swallowing and letting out a proper completion to her sentence. “You were just really quiet all night and, I was surprised to hear you waking up—um—” She stopped to watch him as he regarded her with a confused frown and wary breathing before multiple realizations appeared in her mind, the only response she found fitting to give them was lightly smacking her forehead with her palm. Did he even understand her? She had taken a glance at the wallet and phone she found in the man’s messenger bag yesterday, and the information on those was in Italian, but what’s to say he was from a nearby region and thus capable of understanding her dialect, or even a native at all?

_Right, of course, gosh—_ She looked away to form the sentences in her head, fingers linking and unlinking and feet occasionally shifting, before taking a deep, composing breath and looking back at him to question with confidence although with also worry creasing her face; she first asked if he spoke any Italian at all, in the only other languages she knew, which consisted of rather excellent French and British English. When he nodded (although looked extremely irritated while doing so, but that was just the pain talking, which she’d remembered _after_ he’d shifted his head to keep looking at her) she asked if he understood her dialect, to which he gave the same response. Interpreting the following silence as her having nothing left to ask, he closed his eyes and looked strained for a moment before the tightened countenance faded, probably along with the pain he was feeling. Amelia on the other hand, was concerned with the lack of speech and, knowing it _had_ to be something more than mere introversion, pondered on it, her thumb rubbing the side of her index finger as she did.

Was he in extreme pain? So much that he couldn’t speak at all? He seemed relaxed now, but seeing how he was clearly bothered when he woke up, she _had_ to make sure... Yet as she opened her mouth to do so, she was silenced by seeing him helping himself up to a sitting position, wincing every now and then, but eventually sitting up properly—she rushed to move one of the pillows so that it would rest behind him—and only when she moved back again, sweating bullets out of how awkward the silence and intimidating his inquiring stare was, did another possibility reveal itself to her.

Could he be _mute_?

It was possible... But she _certainly_ couldn’t just ask him that point-blank; wouldn’t that be rude? Though, there _were_ so many other factors to consider as well, so this wasn’t the most solid conclusion—

_Beep beep._

Amelia glanced at her watch: twenty minutes to nine. She’d be late for work if she didn’t leave soon! Going to the chest-of-drawers on one side of the room and rummaging through it until she withdrew a notebook and a pen, she later returned to him while hastily brushing her hair away from her face.

“Look, um, you don’t have—” She interrupted herself as a much better rephrasing of her sentence appeared in her head, and thus started again. “—If you don’t want to talk at the moment, that’s... that’s okay, I guess. Here,” Placing the notebook gently on his lap with the pen on top _should_ have made her realize she didn’t know if he could even write with the hand that she saw right now—his left— but she instead skipped past that point and prioritized the information this reminded her of. Xanxus merely watched her with an unreadable look as she walked over to the small dining table in the room and removed from its top an object he recognized, the recognition instantly putting a deep frown on his face.

“Yeah, this is yours, right? It fell off when I was...” Now noticing his glare, her walking speed slowed. “Uh... bringing you in... here...” Freezing in front of the couch at the sight of his countenance up close, she didn’t prevent him from taking the prosthetic arm away from her, and simply watched him as he stared at it with annoyance before plunking it onto his lap and putting his hand on his right shoulder to lower his jacket down—thinking he might want privacy, she instantly headed to the table and picked up the other object she forgot to bring with her the first time, and to avoid another walk back came into the kitchen, removed the napkin off the tray of food she had prepared on the counter, then picked it up and returned to see him still annoyed even with his right arm now attached. Did she do something wrong? There wasn’t anything she found off about her behavior, thinking back—at least, she _hoped_ she didn’t do anything she shouldn’t have... Putting the tray down near him on the bed, she rubbed her arm and looked visibly nervous, fidgeting for a while before she remembered to place the object she currently held—his wallet—down on the nightstand beside the couch and then retreated to her thoughts once again; whatever the reason was, he was clearly not in the mood to communicate, and so her line of questions, in fact her entire attempts to converse with him, would have to stop here. _Until he’s in a better mood for me to ask, I guess I have to figure out how to pronounce his name alone for now..._ She had seen the man’s name in his wallet when she first brought him in, and was clearly intrigued by it... Speaking of names _..._

The hand soothing herself stopped to pinch her arm punitively. _God, help me._ She didn’t even introduce _herself_.

“Um...” Intimidated again by his unexpected action of looking at her with the same frown he was regarding his prosthetic in, she flinched for a second before the words tumbled out eventually. “Look— I—” His frown deepened, and she sighed to stop herself, took a deep breath, and started again with a brief and articulate introduction this time, which seemed satisfactory enough for him. Her watch beeping again to signal that she now had ten minutes to get to work, Amelia awkwardly shifted, her full weight resting on one foot at a time.

“Listen, I... have to go to work now. So, I’ve charged your phone and put it near you,” Xanxus looked at the nightstand to see exactly what she described, along with a slip of paper with a number written on it. “Yeah, just... call me or text me if you need anything; I come home at five... Oh— Your wheelchair’s to your left,” Seeing the man turn to see that, she slowly started to back away, picking up her keys from the kitchen counter and pointing at a nearby door.

“There’s the bathroom, and you’re free to anything in the fridge... Um... Yeah... See you...” Xanxus watched her slowly slip out of the door and lock it, and was silent for quite a while after.

He took the chance to look around, now that he was sitting up. This seemed to be what counted as the living room of the apartment, which was connected to the kitchen. Though, other than the tall shelves that were stuffed with books, everything else was plain in here. Glancing at his phone, he folded his left arm across himself to reach down and tap the screen; what he expected to see, was indeed on the list of notifications lined up on the lock screen.

_Dear Sir, due to your absence today and not answering any calls, your reservation has been cancelled. A no-show fee has been charged from your credit card._

Xanxus regarded the message listlessly, and sighed. Money was the last of his concerns.

Not that he, presently, had any concerns at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to apologize for the lateness! It’s been.. whoa, almost five months now.. I don’t like to make excuses, but for the sake of clarification, many things have been happening over those five months, including a period of severe writer’s block and school stress, but I’m glad to be here today uploading this! I appreciate _all_ the kudos and the like you’ve all left so far, though I’m hoping to see some comments soon! Regardless, thank you all again for your patience and support! Expect the next chapter at a much sooner rate than this one took, and I hope you've enjoyed this one!


	4. Mystery

What was progress?

It certainly wasn’t Levi reporting that absolutely none of the cars, vans or even the jet the Varia owned had been used. ‘I even had all the gas containers checked,’ he’d told Squalo. ‘And all of them are the same; down to the milliliter!’

It also wasn’t, Lussuria questioning a small selection of grunts—they couldn’t tell everyone. It would cause an uproar for certain, and the last thing they needed was panicked assassins (though, Levi had impulsively sent out his Lightning Squad as a search party, prompting a brief yet heated argument with Squalo before the latter had grudgingly approved; on the condition that _no one_ other than those people knew about the situation)—who were with him yesterday on whether they had seen him after their tasks, be it that they were delivering food to him, or making his bed, _anything_ , and getting a negative response as well.

Nor was it Mammon’s struggles to keep Belphegor distracted rather than wander out on his own killing spree; the blonde was clearly still in shock and, to an extent, a bit of anger as well, and there wasn’t a time he was as difficult as when _upset_.

So, to sum up, they weren’t making any progress at all. And it was horrifying, to say the least, if not humiliating. Squalo, expressing his frustration at this, slammed his fists onto the vacant desk in Xanxus’ office, where they usually held meetings with the (presently, absent) owner of said office.

“VVVOOOIIII! You’re expecting me to believe he _rolled_ himself out of the place?! BY HIMSELF?!” Silence. Turning to face them, he found none of them even looking at him. It always infuriated him that they knew each other so well, that they almost didn’t have to say anything at all to communicate. While it would make certain people feel incredibly powerful and intelligent—Levi caught him staring, and frowned—it only made the Strategy Captain feel incredibly stupid.

Though, to the others’ credit, it was pretty obvious that Xanxus _couldn’t_ have left the Varia Mansion alone, by simply leaving through a door, and Squalo didn’t really have to point that out anymore.

The Varia Mansion, as well as the actual Headquarters, were both comfortably secluded in Italy’s northernmost region, Aosta Valley. The low population (other than tourists, but luckily those were seasonal), lack of a mode of transportation that put the squad at risk—an airport _did_ exist in Aosta. However, it had been bankrupt and abandoned for ages, and it was easier to go by car and bus anyway; the Varia wasted no time in buying the place and making sure it still _looked_ abandoned to innocents. Illusions really _were_ useful, especially when one had expensive jets over there, though it was a good distance away from the Varia Mansion, making walking there impossible (plus, the Varia would have known if Xanxus was there, wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like the grunts that patrolled there were supplied with a confidentiality policy or anything)—and snowy peaks as well as dense forestry proved a great location to the founders of the Varia. None of the generations of assassins, following the founders and leading up to the current one, Xanxus’ generation, saw a reason to change that; no point in abandoning the one security measure they had, if not accounting for the plethora of them they followed. To unsuspecting eyes, the two estates were nothing more than castles of the past, closed off by most likely the government for the sake of preservation.

Of course, being so high up made getting off the area just as difficult as reaching it; while cars, horses and even carriages easily made it up generally, the climb was certainly steep, and going down never failed to induce anxiety. Especially, when on foot. (No one, even assassins, wanted to deal with the frequent snow, nor with the lingering presence of wild wolves that are _not_ in fact extinct in the area—other than regular sightings in the region’s reserve—as many people liked to believe.) Thus, if Xanxus hadn’t apparently flown or drove out of the area, and was clearly unable to walk out, how could he had logically left? Though, he _did_ often like to wander in the forests, when it wasn’t as cold—never when snowing—and for protection, his guns and stubborn fearlessness were enough. But it wasn’t relevant.

He shouldn’t have been able to leave on his own. And yet, he wasn’t here.

 _How?_ Even worse, how _weren’t_ they able to find him? True, they hadn’t had anyone disappear on them for a long time (this time, Bel was the one who frowned in response to Squalo’s glaring) and admittedly they were caught off guard, but to be fair, none of them had associated the words ‘disappear’ and ‘Xanxus’ together, not even in drunken thoughts. The drills everyone rehearsed at least a few times a month consisted of _plausible_ things: fires! Infiltrations! Shootings! Bombings! _Avalanches_ , for God’s sake! Not having someone vanish with a good number of clothes (as thorough investigation of the Boss’ room had proven) into thin air and leave behind an extremely cryptic message! And on top of that, there was the looming question of where he’d gone, why he’d gone, what he was doing, whether someone had taken him out— wait! Could he be now a hostage?! But who would even—

“ _Squalo_.” Belphegor spat, bringing the addressed back to reality and probably judging him with furrowed brows underneath the blonde hair. “We’ve been in here for _twenty_ minutes, just so you’re aware. You’re the _only_ one who’s been talking.” It took Squalo a second, to register that the other was responding to his outburst from a few moments ago, and then he stopped looking confused. It also took him a second, to start getting _visibly_ ready to explode, instead.

“Squalo,” Lussuria’s tone was low, and warning. He was always the one who, with almost no concern for himself, took the risk of walking straight into Squalo’s ire, either literally or verbally, as was the case right now. “Take a deep breath.”

Levi and Mammon, who assumed they were the only ones that still had their sanity, tensed, dreading the result, knowing that _nothing_ , absolutely nothing, irked Squalo—who at present, had a reddened face, wild eyes, and a clenched jaw—more than being told to calm down... Surprisingly—almost magically, in fact—however, it seemed to work, with him obliging. None of them would take the sound of Squalo’s deep inhale through his nose and heavy, pensive exhale through puffed cheeks for granted any time soon, that was certain.

“Okay. _Okay._ Fine.” the silver-haired began again, massaging the bridge of his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. He paced briefly beside Xanxus’ desk before he stopped, faced everyone, and continued. “Let’s try this again, from the beginning.” And immediately, Lussuria, Belphegor and Levi wondered if Mammon’s dreadful whisper of ‘oh, _God,_ ’ was imaginary or not.

“Where, the ever-loving _fuck—_ ” the obscenity was, ironically, the most softly-spoken word in all of that hissed sentence. “—did he go?”

It took, much to Bel’s dismay, another twenty minutes—mind, a combined effort—to get Squalo to calm down, and even longer with arguing to finally come up with a plausible if not satisfactory conclusion. Whatever their Boss had done to pull off this vanishing act, and whatever means he had of doing so, he was clearly nowhere in the area now... and with millions of possible locations he could be in, a fact lingered in the shadows of all, that Lussuria helpfully pointed out. That Xanxus, possibly, took the riskiest path of all, which they would struggle deeply with following. Being, wherever he’s gone, he was now probably deep within the common population, surrounded by _civilians_. At that, Squalo exploded for real, and Mammon and Bel groaned as Levi and Lussuria struggled with him. This uproar between them, however, was extremely beneficial for one person, hiding his eavesdropping in his duty of patrolling the office as most Varia grunts had to do with the number of rooms in the building, and thus risked a sigh of relief. He couldn’t possibly forget being held at gunpoint by the Boss himself and being told to drive him to the train station. _This is none of your concern, scum,_ he’d said then. _And it better stay that way._ That’s right. It’d be difficult, but he had to keep his mouth shut! Besides, it’s not like he knew _why_ Xanxus wanted to go there or where he’d gone after that; he couldn’t afford living to know that one of the most powerful men in the mafia would hold a personal grudge against him for saying anything— this had nothing to do with him! It might as well have been an omertà; within his first year of working here, too! He wasn’t sure if it was a privilege or a burden. Both would kill him, anyway.

Either way, the only person who had to worry about this, was long gone.

* * *

_Tick. Tick. Tick._ The clock in the room was extremely annoying. If he could, Xanxus would have shot it down by now, except, he couldn’t. Both literally and somewhat morally, since this wasn’t his house, and, his guns were in his duffle bag (it was a hassle enough, concealing them. Luckily the people working at the train stations were dumb enough). God knows where Amelia had put it; probably wherever his suitcase is, too. How long has it been since Amelia had left again? Long enough for his meal to go cold. It’s not like he wanted to eat, anyway. Or at all, for that matter.

_Tick._

He could _really_ go for a beer. There were a few cans in his messenger bag, which he noticed was on the ground near the nightstand.

_Tick._

...Later, perhaps. When, and _if_ , he felt well enough to move. Since he was, for the time being, stuck here, he might as well take a look around.

The apartment (probably a studio) was rather plain. Probably the best some money from one’s parents and an average income could get them, as well as some money they’d saved up as a teen for good measure. The furniture was colorful, yet the colors themselves weren’t bold. Rather, they were toned-down hues that still managed to make the place somewhat vibrant, he supposed. Maybe she didn’t get guests that often. From where he was sitting, there was a pair of arm chairs uncomfortably pressed together to his front and right along with a glass coffee table further front; they must have been what would have been occupying the space the bed portion of this couch-bed currently was in. A television hung up on a wooden wall unit in front of him as well— _Hm,_ he thought. _She gets paid well_ —with the shelving unit beneath a home for generic things: a DVD player, some movies, a satellite receiver, and some small decorations as well as two compartments exclusively dedicated to books.

To his left, was indeed what he’d seen when he’d woken up, plus his wheelchair (and he frowned, after seeing it. How was he supposed to move out of the couch, if he had to crawl forwards for a bit to get on it, since the only free spot apparently was there, too far from him? He wasn’t getting out of bed any time soon, that was certain, but it’s not like he wanted to, to begin with, and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t pull that off right either if he was in her place—actually, he wouldn’t really bother at all, when it came to anyone else, so the irrelevance made him angrier); however, what he’d assumed to be book _shelves_ was in fact just _one_ unit, yet obscure in its design, with its dozen compartments different in either horizontal-vertical orientation or height, as if trying to obtain as much surface area as possible. It was in the way of one of the balcony’s curtained glass doors, but it seemed like only the right door was useable, hence the fact the curtain hung above it was pushed to the left with the other one. Plus, it brought enough sunlight and a small view for him to mildly entertain himself with into the room anyway. Beyond the clothesline fixed outside, there were a few buildings; probably also apartment complexes, but from where he was, he could see a peek of the expansive stretch of architecture and greenery of the small city. It wasn’t much of a view, but it was decent enough for him to probably keep staring at all day instead of doing anything productive.

Though, the amount of books this woman had baffled him.

As if the TV unit and the shelf beside him weren’t enough, there were narrow bookshelves on each side of the main door—the right one, also drew his attention to the right side of the studio in general, which consisted of a kitchen and a very small dining table that could hold a maximum of four people—and wherever her bedroom was, there were probably bookshelves in there as well. Books of all colors and sizes inhabited the shelves, most in paperback, but a good amount of them in hardcover too. He couldn’t read the titles on the ones in the TV unit and near the door because they were too far away, but the ones on the bookshelf beside him were close enough and enough insight into her life; the books were mostly in Italian, but some were in French, and much, much more of them were in English. Actually, speaking of her bedroom, he could see a vague reflection off the surface of the switched off TV that there was a hallway to his right, which he wouldn’t have been able to figure out if the TV wasn’t there, because he couldn’t turn his head that far in that direction without needing to move himself, and he knew how that would end up. The hallway probably led to the other rooms in the studio; the furthest he could see to the right, otherwise, was a door fixed to the wall a few steps away from the kitchen. A closet, perhaps?

But none of that really mattered, because he didn’t want to stay here. Though, it wasn’t like he could just pick up his things and leave. Not even just because he was, currently, physically unable to, but because he didn’t want to risk having Amelia call the police or whatever. In fact, why did she bring him all the way here? Why didn’t she— actually, it was a lot better that she _didn’t_ call an ambulance. Dealing with authorities and other assets of the public population was always risky and a _pain_ , and so any chance that he got to stay away from them, the better.

God, he was tired.

He glanced at the nightstand to his right where Amelia had placed his wallet again, and noticed something else on it as well: a book. It was small, paperback, with the cover featuring a dwarfish figure—Xanxus looked closer. Was that a _rabbit_?—who was clad in a red suit, and was walking towards a large mansion. The book itself seemed like it had been handled a lot of times, and yet with care, as there was no damage on the spine or the corners. Despite this, the cover and pages looked like they would easily open out wide. _The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane_ , the title read. When was the last time he’d read something in English? He didn’t remember. But, it wasn’t like he couldn’t; he knew 12 languages, and hell, if he dedicated that much time learning to speak them, he certainly spent years mastering how to read in them too. A thin, artwork-covered bookmark adorned with a turquoise ribbon peeked out from within the pages, near the beginning of the book; with some difficulty, he folded his left arm over himself and picked up the book before opening it to where the bookmark was. He wasn’t curious, but he strangely felt obligated to read now that he’d seen the book. He read the little section Amelia had stopped on before what seemed to be the next page.

> _“Why did it make no difference?” asked Abeline._
> 
> _“Because,” said Pellegrina, “she was a princess who loved no one and cared nothing for love, even though there were many who loved her.”_
> 
> _At this point of the story, Pellegrina stopped and looked right at Edward. She stared deep into his painted-on eyes, and again, Edward felt a shiver go through him._

Xanxus stared at the words a while longer, then closed the book. _How silly,_ he thought. He remembered the notebook and pen Amelia had placed on his lap. Luckily, he learned from a young age to write with both hands. And more than ever, that was extremely beneficial.

Xanxus uncapped the pen, then wrote something down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh.. well. It’s been a while. Do I have an excuse? Not really. Want to hear one anyway? A lot’s been going on. From now on, I probably shouldn’t promise when chapters come out, haha. Anyway!!!! Thank you all so much for all the hits, kudos, and comments! I'm in tears; they’ve really helped in keeping me going! Hopefully, the plot will slowly start to pick up now, and I’m just really happy I’ve gotten out of my slump and came out with this. See you in the next one, let me know what you guys think!!! (And maybe, I might do a thing where I run a sweep over the chapters for any errors I might have missed... it's just a picky thing about me, I guess.)
> 
> _( The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo, Chapter Four, Page 27.)_
> 
> ~~On another note, all of you should read that book. It’ll destroy you.~~
> 
> ~~...Please don’t sue me, Kate DiCamillo, should you ever find this. I’m not profiting off your work, I promise.~~


	5. Delicacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this chapter. [Hover for warnings.]()

Amelia always found it amusing that she, like the hundreds of customers that frequented Pasticceria Usignolo, caught herself surprised by the large amount of activity that took place in the kitchen, behind the small bakery’s fully-stocked counters and shelves. To regular people, the amount of the contrast between production and sales was, at the very least, baffling; when one thought of a baking establishment, they usually thought of the aforementioned counters and shelves plus a coffee machine, and maybe a few smiling cashiers. And, if the establishment was as big as this one, there would be a small window lodged in the building where one could see whoever was in charge of decorating cakes for the day invested in their work (which, was a mere sliver of reality). One also tended to include quaint chairs and tables nestled inside the bakery in their imagination of one, with soft music playing and delicate décor everywhere that was worthy of a few minutes appreciation in between each bite of whatever a customer happened to order… 

They didn't, on the other hand, ever associate a bakery with these things: intense, borderline _blazing_ heat, legs sore from standing for long periods of time and also running around in the kitchen, flour caking the air along with orders and instructions yelled over the other sounds in the kitchen—the pounding of dough, whining of machines, clatter of trays and plates, and finally the roar of running water as dishes were rinsed rapidly to keep up with the demands of batch after batch—which were all echoing at such an intensity that Amelia herself couldn’t tell if she were flinching in response to the volume or as a result of her body conducting the sound waves. It was hectic, exhausting and most of all (as it seemed to others) an invitation for mistakes and accidents. Luckily, Pasticceria Usignolo occupied the spot it had on this street in Perugia for years, and Ornella Spada, founder and head baker, would not let any mistakes occur on her watch; none that couldn’t be saved with quick thinking. She didn’t only pass down the technique of baking to her employees, but also the vigor it both needed and gave. Especially, when the bakers themselves today were able to work with the high pressure of the day-to-day tasks, amplified by shifts in demand through the seasons; her work was paying off, clearly. 

They could, in fact, turn all the different things that were going on simultaneously—despite being in the same place—into a beautiful rhythm, the foundation of the symphony of creating their goods that brought their customers back again and again, begging for more. 

Ornella and the other bakers, who were either part of her family or those who’d been working with her for nearly a decade, prided themselves the _privilege_ of working with the dough: _cut!—weigh!—shape!—into the oven!—scoop!—repeat!_... As well as the most experienced, they were also the strongest, physically, as their job _required_ ; the main counter had developed a deepening groove through the years, but the bakers’ muscles were from wasting away. Anyone who didn’t have experience for that long, was dubbed a ‘trainee’ till the head baker decided otherwise. The training program Ornella enforced on the trainees aimed to transform them into versatile bakers: adaptable and sufficient with all sorts of recipes and skills. Thus, they had ‘rotations’ neatly listed on a whiteboard, which was bolted onto one of the kitchen’s walls, updated daily. One day, Amelia would find herself assigned to cleaning alone. The next, decorating. The day after, pastries. This was to allow each baker’s talents to shine, or, if they performed poorly in one task, they had a chance to practice and improve their skills. Still, if anyone had a clear specialty, they worked on that, additionally; presently, Amelia busied herself with dusting icing sugar onto each morsel of the three large trays of fruit mini-tarts in front of her. She was no artist, and knew her arrangement required more than just relying on the aesthetic appeal of symmetry. But that was what she loved most; with every hour she spent in this job, she learned something new. Besides, at the very least she earned herself an approving nod from the more experienced staff and delighted expressions from the other trainees as they all passed by her and got a chance to look over her shoulder, relief filling her as the cart, carrying the trays she had finished and loaded onto it, was taken away to restock the displays at sales, immediately catching the attention of customers. 

The doors of the ovens and the freezer opened and shut, mixers whirred and quietened, carts and trays slid in and out. The beautiful rhythm could go on and on for ages. And it did, high tempo decreasing in midday and calming in the afternoon, till 5 PM, at least. It was only after Ornella flipped the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and went back into the kitchen, sounding the usual “That’s it! Good work, everyone,” with the addressed sluggishly raising an arm in victory, did they then set about with cleaning and chatting amongst themselves, as well as lathering moisturizer onto their hands or stretching the soreness out of their bodies. Though the bakery didn’t often end up with leftovers, it wasn’t a rarity, and these were distributed to the bakers themselves. Amelia, ready to leave and remembering her guest in her apartment, quickly grabbed a box, as well as another, though not for herself or the former. She exchanged waves and goodbyes with all the other bakers, before exiting, and sighing. 

It wasn’t anything like last night, out at the moment. No rain, first of all, and a light breeze was blowing through the street, gently pushing autumn leaves off of trees somewhere beyond here and scattering them all the way to this unevenly paved ground. To Amelia, this was the most ordinary street in the world, and yet the smallest things that happened in it managed to make it beautiful: the distant ringing of the local church’s bell on Sundays; the staccato of feet walking either along the street with her or on the bridges and arches in the area as was the case in most of Perugia; laughter, mixed in with the music and maddeningly delicious smells trailing out of the stores she passed; people’s daily activities, whether they were walking their dogs, watering their plants, or even hanging their colorful laundry from the upper stories of buildings whose paint had started to fade with time; all things she could easily get used to. And yet, she didn’t mind getting used to quaint, to happy, to _simple_. 

Her motorcycle not too far away, parked in front of the bakery, she walked the opposite direction towards the store that was almost flush against her workplace: the words ‘Goretti and Son’s’made up the bold, cursive parts of the main sign, large and purple, with a black subtitle of ‘for Quality Floristry’ underneath. Pushing open the door and hearing the bell attached to it ring softly, Amelia entered, smiling. 

This particular flower shop hadn’t been around for as long as Amelia’s bakery had, but regardless, time was kind to the place, evident by how it was _still_ up and running—prospering _well_ , in fact. Plus, with its owner Piero Goretti being a long-time family friend to Amelia and more of family over the growing years, the store would reasonably hold a special place in her heart. The familiar dark brown walls, darker oak counter bodies and racks, contrasting with the painted and polished white wood counter-tops and the _myriad_ of flowers and plants—fresh and artificial—as well as their accessories made the flower shop something beyond her reality, more at home with her imagination. Curiously, however, the shop’s sensual experience was everything but mainly olfactory as one would expect. Amelia had heard from Piero about the genetic engineering of flowers that tragically made their shelf life and beauty last longer at the price of having strong scents. Still, despite the absence of anything to really smell, (unless, one counted the smell of hot drinks employees and customers drank through the day as well as that of glue and lacquer; the only strongly relevant scents would be that of the remains of chopped flowers lying in the garbage bins in the work areas, and the mildly unpleasant scent that formed as a result of combining plants with water that, when placed in vases, became stagnant) it was a joy to come here, even if she rarely purchased anything. After all, seeing the gentle smiles of the staff as they noticed her from their work tables to her left, and to her right, the table holding all the vases and other miscellaneous items which was housed on three sides by the eye-catching artificial snapdragon walls, left a light, fluttering and happy feeling in her. 

Of course, even if she weren’t shopping, she had a reason for coming here. The smile dancing on her lips grew a little as she approached the main counter, which had one employee behind it, rubbing something meticulously in his hands behind a familiar tousle of dirty-blond hair. 

“Hello, Richard.” 

The addressed employee looked up—Amelia could see now, that wrapped up in the towel was a small wooden owl, which regarded her with warm, painted eyes and strangely long limbs—and he mirrored her smile with one of his own immediately, putting the two objects down on the counter to rest his hands on its surface, stance relaxed and open. “Hey!” 

Richardo Goretti, or as he preferred since childhood, Richard, was the aforementioned ‘Son’ in the shop’s name, working as an employee himself. His gifted arrangement skills weren’t the _sole_ reason the shop kept drawing in customers, but both Richard and his father acknowledged his talents and hoped to use them as best as they could, hence the number of arrangements clearly still in progress behind the counter. Of course, it was at least half an hour before closing time for him, so most of these would have to be dismantled or put back into the cooler to resume work the next day. Not wanting to take too long with that in mind, Amelia went ahead and placed the box of goods onto the counter, pushing it towards him. 

“Brought you something,” she said, though allowed her tone to turn coy as she leaned back on her heels slightly. “Though I can’t help but wonder when you’ll drop by and get these, you know, _yourself_?” 

“Oh, shut up,” came his reply through laughter, as he rubbed his hands together again and lifted the lid to take a peek at the box’s contents before letting out a groan. “ _Lemon_ macarons again?” 

“Oh, you know Gerarda. She’s been around for far longer than I have, so I’ve no place in stopping her from experimenting with flavors,” 

He interrupted. “If the ‘experimenting’ results were good enough for her to bring them back, how are they in the leftovers?” 

Amelia raised an eyebrow and, with a mocking gentleness, patted one of Richard’s hands on the counter. “People with uncultured taste buds like you.” 

“Wha—” 

Their laughter rang through the store, as did the brief small talk after. She _didn’t_ , however, mention yesterday’s events; she wasn’t sure if she were in the authority to just tell anyone when she didn’t even know all the details of her guest herself, despite the temptation of confiding in Richard… _No. It can’t be right._ At least, she had an equally interesting conversation to have with him; she tugged the towel he previously held down across the counter till it was between them, and as the wooden owl now regarded them both she felt compelled to smile at it. “So what’s this?” 

“A shelf-sitter,” he said, beaming. Picking up the owl, he briefly ran his thumb over the edges before walking away from the counter to demonstrate as he propped up the wooden bird on the top-most shelf on the wall, its legs dangling down and yet not causing it to topple over, supported with the ‘wings’ resting on the shelf’s surface. Amelia couldn’t help but imagine the sight of it against her books at home… _How cute…_

“There’s a more of them in the back, been here since a few months, actually,” Richard suddenly added, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

“Oh, no… Did no one…” 

“Ah—no! People liked it, but I guess this was better for Easter, or Christmas,” he said, shrugging, and then walked back to the counter, unable to hold himself back from opening the box completely and admiring its contents while Amelia kept her gaze on the owl. She was no artist herself, but she found it unreasonable that Richard’s efforts to draw in more income, by having the store double as a gift shop with crafts like these, went unnoticed… But he’d never let her help out. She knew he was too proud for that, and hated it. 

For now though, she had to get going; it was already starting to get late. 

“Trust me,” she said, interrupting him as he wolfed down one of the leftover pastries, to which she smiled. “You’ll find yourself making tons more to restock in no time.” Richard smiled back behind stuffed cheeks, and to Amelia, that was good enough. 

Exchanging brief farewells, she walked out of the store, down the leaf-filled road again and back to her motorcycle parked by the bakery. She then put the remaining box in the top-case, before hastily throwing her helmet, clambering on and driving back. She had left it in the back of her mind till now, but she guiltily thought back on it: how she found it concerning that her guest hadn’t called nor messaged her since she left— _God, aren’t I stupid,_ she thought. _She_ should have been the one to initiate. There wasn’t time to mope, though; Amelia had questions to ask. 

* * *

Amelia hesitated at her door for a few minutes, keys in hand yet hovering by the lock. Her apartment was… eerily quiet. She assumed her guest might have switched on the television to entertain himself, but, that wasn’t the case. She listened for a little longer. Nothing. Was he asleep? Or in the bathroom? Probably, but she decided to act based on the former and thus unlocked and pushed the door open as carefully as she could, before peeking through the gap… 

_Oh, good._ He was still awake, face turned away from her and instead facing the window, eyes focused on the world outside it. Nothing had changed much in his position, other than the fact he had unbuttoned his fleece jacket to reveal a black tank-top underneath at some point, but otherwise he was still sitting up with his hands—correction, _hand_ , as he seemed to have removed his prosthesis and rested it near him, letting his right sleeve hang loosely—on his lap, countenance somber and distant, unmoving, unblinking… 

It didn’t last. Before she could form another thought about him, he whipped his head towards her and (unfortunately) frowned again, sending her stomach into the tight clutch of her nerves. Awkwardly entering and shutting the door behind her, she stood there and smiled briefly at him to gather her thoughts; in return he stared harder and frowned deeper. _Okay, I should probably stop looking like an idiot._

"Hey," she began, hoping he would accept a casual approach from her, and felt her confidence grow a little as she kept going, taking the fact his expression hadn’t changed yet as a sign no mistakes were made yet. "Hope you’re feeling a little better! Sorry I kept you waiting, I should have tried to get out a little earlier... Oh—" A sudden realization sunk in, kicking her cheerful attitude away and replacing it with mortification. It was five, and he hadn’t eaten anything other than breakfast since he’d gotten up at _eight_ , because she wasn’t home. 

"...Oh God. I—I'm so sorry! I should have made you some lunch in advance as well—" Burning with shame, she nearly tossed the box of baked goods to the nearest surface while she hurried over to pick up the tray of breakfast she had left on his bed... Only to realize all the food was the way she had left it for him, cold now, and picked at rather than eaten—no, more like completely untouched. 

_What?_ Did he not like it? Surely he didn’t _not_ feel hungry during all those hours, right? It didn’t seem possible… Until she saw what rested on the tray, got a whiff of his breath from this distance which prompted her to meet his glare before he was the first one to look away, towards the window again, and understood. Well. Despite her own opinions… she wasn’t going to judge his lifestyle while he was still her guest. Silently taking the tray away to her kitchen and separating what had to be trashed from what she could easily reheat and consume later, she glanced at him over her shoulder and pouted slightly whilst contemplating his elusive appetite again before noticing something else—was the couch… slightly pushed aside? She didn’t notice him glance back at her as she slapped her palm to her eyes and roll his own before looking away once more, but if embarrassment was audible there would be a screech for all to hear as her heart sank to her stomach. _God, get a grip already!_ She should have known better than to go to work this morning without making the place a little… friendlier for him. Trying to justify it made her feel worse, so she poured some water into a kettle to make him a cup of tea, at least, to have with the remaining sweets she brought back, when her eyes were drawn in his direction again, this time to the nightstand. 

She didn’t remember leaving her book with its back cover up, nor with the notebook she gave Xanxus underneath it. 

_Strange._

On a new tray, Amelia placed the finished teacup next to a small bowl that she filled with a selection of sweets from the box, and then walked back to the couch-bed again, only this time silently swapping the tray for her book, finding that thankfully, her bookmark was still in place. Along with it was a white folded piece of paper, which she gently pulled out, her eyes widening a little in surprise. In a scratchy, hard-pressed, left-slanting print, were the following words: ‘You like children’s books?’ 

If Xanxus had said it instead of written it, Amelia wouldn’t have wondered if the question was genuine or mocking because she would have (obviously) perceived it from his tone, but the fact that he was _interested_ even the slightest flipped a switch in her heart and suddenly, she found herself smiling at him even if he wasn’t looking back, with words rushing out of her— 

“Well, yeah but— this book, is much more than that. _So_ much more. To me, at least,” she said, hugging the book closer to her before continuing, and smiled wider mid-speech when he stopped staring at the mini tart he’d taken from the bowl and finally bit into it. “It’s my most favorite book of all time, because—well,” she paused to nervously laugh and scratch her cheek, glancing around her apartment. “You’ve already seen how many books I’ve got here... And…” But she trailed off then, not only because she was struck with the feeling he wasn’t really listening, but because instead, he was clutching his upper right arm, where she assumed was whatever remained of his arm, knuckles white with pressure, expression tense— _No, don’t stare—_ “Hey— are you okay?” 

However, almost as immediately as she asked, Xanxus’ hand returned to his lap, and he gave a curt nod, not looking at her again… Which prompted Amelia to frown slightly in concern. If he was avoiding the question, then she had no right to probe further nor intrude, but if she wanted answers, she’d have to figure out a way to get one. Her only hint was, it wasn’t going to be talking for sure. Sighing internally, she set the book down on the nightstand again; though now, she noticed that there was something else written on the scrap of paper, near the bottom: it took her a moment to piece together that it was a pronunciation guide of his name, which she then gingerly tried aloud only to get another curt nod from the addressed, before she turned back to the kitchen to make something for herself this time. 

Xanxus watched Amelia leave, waiting until she seemed entirely occupied with pulling things out of cupboards, but he couldn’t, despite how badly he wanted it, allow himself to scratch at his healing stump with someone else present. Besides, there were bandages in the way, thus eliminating any possible relief… But those would need to be changed soon. He didn’t want to even imagine how that would go down, with far too many factors to name. And yet… _Shit._ He squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his left fist around the blankets, as if literally holding himself down. It burned so much. Just holding it helped, but he needed more, needed to— _No,_ a voice sounded in his mind. _That’ll make it worse. You know that._ Something, anything else— think. Think of anything else. 

While others might have found him giving her his name irrational and a case of poor judgment, it didn’t matter to him because, what _was_ in a name? Only the meaning people held to it. And here, Xanxus didn’t mean anything, was no one of importance, just like this woman was—speaking of which, he _was_ listening, actually. Even if he didn’t care, there wasn’t anything to tune her out with except— _Damn.._. His fist tightened, tightened further still. It wasn’t enough, he was still on fire— _Focus_ — 

How alone could a person be? 

It was never a question that he thought about till now; all day, no one had knocked on her door, no form of authorities had showed up, the bathroom was far too small and the furniture too similar in aesthetic to imply someone else lived here or regularly visited. That, and her readiness to talk so enthusiastically to him— 

Desperate, he redirected the pressure, then let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, while his nails pushed against his palm, moving back and forth against it. It… would do temporarily, and if being under influence didn’t protect him from _that_ pain, it would dull this one for sure… Now, while his mind was still clear and he had a working distraction, with no one to voice any concern the second they noticed what he was doing: again, how alone could a person be? _Enough to be this stupid,_ he thought. _To be that easy going with a_ stranger _like me._ But it was a lie, another of the many he knew the reality of and yet chose to live like he didn’t. One that would come back when he would ask himself again at a different time, for a different reason. And the answer would be the same. 

Crushingly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~yes I realize i forgot to name the chapter shh~~ So... it’s been a while again. I don’t think putting a huge block of text would be the right thing, so to sum up, and be very general... I had entered a period where as a result of external stress, I was creatively deprived and even though I _knew_  what to write I just... couldn’t. It didn’t help that the external stress was taking a toll on my own self-esteem and therefore making me want to write even less... But here I am. I fought with it and here I am again. I definitely can’t promise consistency in updates but, I do promise that I think about this every day just as I have for the years this fanfic has been in planning, that I think about every comment and every kudos you guys leave me. Most of all... I really hope this was worth the wait! This isn't the chapter I'm proudest of... But I've never been prouder of myself; I said I would finish it this winter break and I did. I'm so happy, I hope I did you guys proud too!
> 
> That aside, I intentionally wanted this chapter to be all about Amelia, as you might see in the future where I will balance out point of views in chapters—after all, we know enough about Xanxus... or do we? *wink* ~~(Also, too bad I don’t know how to work with CSS well enough to have custom fonts. Wouldn’t it be cool to have things that are handwritten, well, actually look it? Street Prescription is the perfect font for Xanxus’ handwriting.)~~
> 
> Thank you all for reading; again, I appreciate comments and kudos!


	6. Oversight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings on this chapter. [Hover for warnings.]()

Amelia shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. On every level she could think of, this looked terrible, and this would likely be a decision she would regret when she thought back on it. 

Her guest was asleep, and in a deep sleep at that, as if he didn’t usually sleep this way- Well. To be fair, he _had_ been drinking, but she wasn’t a drinker herself. Moreover, Xanxus was still too much of a stranger for her to have any information that would be enough for her to tell much alcohol he could tolerate. He was asleep, and she now could investigate her concerns and answer her past questions—but that would be incredibly invasive. She didn’t want to put herself in a worse situation with him, than where she was already at. _Sure,_ she thought. _Like that’s not what taking a look at his injuries, without permission, is going to do._ Amelia pressed her palms harder across her temples and took a deep breath, before straightening up and walking away from Xanxus. After a moment, she returned with something that usually collected dust in her kitchen drawers—actually, no, that wasn’t accurate. Amelia had an allergy to dust, and so she was _sure_ to wipe all surfaces, used or unused, ever so often; regardless, this object remained unused most of the time, except for accidents that occurred in the kitchen, consequences of any amount of cockiness she had with knives and hot surfaces: her first aid box. Her hands were already washed, and she was focusing on only one area of Xanxus’ body to work on. _Better get to work._

Amelia rolled up her sleeves and inched closer to his sleeping figure, and conveniently enough, he lay on his back with his face turned away. While she was in the kitchen moments ago, he must have tossed and turned a few times, causing the right sleeve of his jacket to empty out completely. Save for the fact he was laying down and still wearing a tank top, she would have a pretty good look at his residual limb… And her insides constricted again as she contemplated her options of either continuing, or backing out. But the image of the tight grip his hand had on this area, paired with his straining countenance as he held it, returned to her mind. She looked up at his fallow face, noting the shallow, slow breathing and the ashiness in the grooved skin of his eyelids—the tight feeling in her body disappeared. She had to keep her feelings aside if she wanted to get anything done. Kneeling down and, with shaking hands, parting the right side of Xanxus’ jacket away from his body, she found herself face to face with his bandaged stump. Again taking care to assess as much as she could by looking before she would resort to touching, the top of the bandage took her attention, where it seemed to stretch beyond to the male’s other shoulder, possibly for more support than the clips and tape that were also present would give on their own, but she focused more on the rim of the bandage, to the skin that peeked from underneath… Here she frowned. She knew that this specific bandage, an elastic bandage, was supposed to be pretty tight, but… 

_It shouldn’t be making his skin this red…_

To confirm, Amelia attempted to push a finger underneath the wraps, and couldn’t even fit the first knuckle of it. Worse, she felt the skin above the bandage, and found it frighteningly cold. Not good. She didn’t want to think about how long this bandage had constricted his blood flow. Slowly, she unfastened the clips—and froze, because Xanxus let out a low, gruff sound, and his brows knotted together in a deep frown, but he stilled again almost immediately, and she let out a fearful breath before she resumed her work. One clip removed at a time, followed by the tape, she then took the end of the bandage and began to unwrap it, her stomach lurching at the tightness, layer upon layer… As soon as a good amount of his skin appeared Amelia stopped, and as she suspected, red, irritated patches were everywhere on his skin. She tried her best to keep her eyes on them instead of wandering down to the thin, needle-like ends of where a dark scar hid underneath the rest of the bandages— _Focus. Focus. Focus._ If it was a simple case of irritation, then surely, letting the area breathe and cool for a while would prove beneficial. Still… 

She looked hesitantly at her box, intimidated by it even if it was still closed, then pressed her palms against her head again to try to remember. It had been so long, and yet she was _sure_ she hadn’t forgotten, hoped she didn’t… Keeping her hands on her head, she closed her eyes, rocking back and forth on her heels till she stopped after a moment, with her forehead rested on the edge of the mattress. But even removing one sense wasn’t enough; desperate, she tried to block out the sound of his breathing and her own pounding heart, so she could focus on her thoughts. 

_What was safe to use on super sensitive skin again…?_

* * *

Xanxus couldn’t tell if his mouth was watering as a result of his irregular breathing, or if it were his body’s natural response against how much he was swallowing to dry his mouth, a requirement to a task he didn’t even know about and yet was unable to stop himself from doing. Either way, he kept walking in the park. The park. _The park._ He was in _that_ park. The others weren’t here, he was early. 

“Boss,” a disembodied voice bayed in his ear. “Hurry.” 

He swallowed, and continued walking. No matter where he looked in the late morning sky, the sun wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and yet heat beat down on him in growing intensity, every step becoming an effort. The park was empty, but perhaps because he hadn’t reached where he and the others were to meet. That’s right. Maybe he wasn’t early like he assumed, but late. Since he followed his own rules, that conclusion made perfect sense. 

At least, that was what he did, anywhere else, anytime else, except here and now. The conditions were different, were too _dire_ for him to mess around and— were his footsteps echoing, or was there someone else with him? _No, I should be alone. That’s what we agreed on._ Or did they agree on something else, or anything at all? He tried to stop, and look back, but he couldn’t, an unnamed urgency pushing him on, pulling every inch of his body forward. So, he didn’t resist. 

“Shut up,” Xanxus said to the voice, once he cleared his mouth and remembered how to speak again, and kept walking. The voice didn’t say anything back, and that relieved him for a moment. How big was this park? None of his surroundings looked familiar or seemed to move with him, and though he would have avoided doing so, he couldn’t stop letting his eyes dart in search of a familiar landmark, his breathing speeding up with each movement. The invisible sun beat down harder and his skin prickled as it began to sweat. 

_Sweat?_

He swallowed, and raised his hand to wipe his melting face, but ripped it away seconds later to stare at it, turning it from the palm to the back over and over, as if it was foreign. 

_Blood._

Not sweating but bleeding, red fluid accompanied by a painful numbness blooming across his entire right arm. Swallowing, gagging, he pushed on, suddenly able to run, and so he did, his feet slamming into the ground despite the lack of increase in his speed, arm heavy despite the blood dripping off it and forming a trail on the path behind him. 

Xanxus wasn’t walking into the park, heading to the place he was supposed to meet the others—who? Who did he have to meet there anyway? _No, not the time to think about that—_ at all, and if he wasn’t aware that none of what was happening had any accuracy to his reality before, he was now. 

His surroundings jerked into clarity, revealed to be that same clearing; well. Not in any way the same, proportions off and positions wrong, but frightening in likeness— his mouth dried and his lungs shrank to the size of his hammering heart, leaving him winded— _Oh, hell_ — 

He was running away. But even if him doing so was intentional or not, if none of this was real, he had the choice to do that, and he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity. The voice snapped his ear again and he dared to look back, to find its owner to be Squalo, and yet Xanxus didn’t recognize him at all, nor could he both bear to look at the gaping wound in the other’s chest nor determine which one of them was the source of all the blood on the ground— _Shit_ — 

“Why weren’t you fast enough?” The Boss didn’t stop to respond, nor to try to contemplate the identity of the other figure who materialized behind the second-in-command. He kept running only to find himself in a loop, returning to the same place and hitting the ground face-first in a harsh bang, unsure if it was the result of slipping on his own blood or his legs failing— _Fuck,_ he coughed; everything became red and his head spun, his hand pawing for his holster but unable to form a proper grip on either one of his guns. Someone was approaching, one ominous, endlessly echoing step at a time. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ — He made eye contact with the second-in-command who was also on the ground, and begged his own eyes to close so he wouldn’t have to spend another second facing that haunting look, but to no avail. 

_“Why weren’t you fast enough?”_

He couldn’t speak, nor stop his breathing, and wondered if he would end up blacking out and thus be vulnerable even if that would be ideal— _No!_ He had to stay. _He had to stay— and yet—_ each one of these instances, for every time he had them, and despite their diversity, was an ’almost’— He _almost_ got away, he _almost_ avoided the attack, he _almost_ won on his own without any help; Xanxus wasn’t going to let this one be an ’almost’ moment too, not while he could still do something about it— His arm disappeared the second it managed to pull one of his guns to the ground, and the advancing figure kicked it away, while screams of an unidentified source filled his ears and shook his insides. _No no no no no—_

* * *

He came to, laying on his back, stiffened, sweating, and soundlessly breathing. The individual beats of his heart were indistinguishable by how close they were to each other and thus, his only indicator of being alive was a heavy ache in his chest. And like an unwanted guest revisiting him, the sensation of his skin suffocating against his clothes and blanket, as they rubbed on him with each breath, overcame him— _Wait._

This wasn’t that sensation. He glanced to the side— 

“Ah—” 

Color drained from the woman’s face and flooded into her eyes instead, in the form of additions to their whites, as he leapt into a seated position and whipped his left arm to her, and though he missed her throat because she reeled back, he seized her collar in time. With reflexes he didn’t expect, she clutched his hand with both of hers and dug her nails into it, causing him to clasp tighter and manage to pinch some of her skin underneath to prompt her to relax her grip— she obeyed but still held on, and after a minute of gasping without regaining breath, tried to choke out a sentence, but all the coherency she could manage under his hostility were apologies— 

“I know I—I—know I shouldn’t—” Her feet slid against the floor as she tried to straighten up, bringing her down to sit on its surface, and her mind blanked as his bloodshot gaze moved from her, to the obvious lack of bandages on his right, and returned to her with a more intense ire. “Look—just—I just—” She stilled as he loosened his grip and looked back to his right stump again, expression shifting to confusion, and she took the chance to defend herself, still shaking and stammering, but able to form a proper sentence this time: 

“You had a really bad rash— and your bandages were too tight— so I let it air out a little and added a little oil—” 

Here, he’d heard enough, and released her from his grip, although kept his eyes trained on her to warn her about doing anything else. She, heart racing, took the hint, scrabbling farther away from him, breathing heavily and unsuccessfully trying to brush her hair away from her sweat-caked face and behind her ears. She only dared to inch closer again once she calmed a little and found him searching the area around him for his bandage, to offer him a new, fresh one of the same kind instead. Earning another hard look as he snatched it away, she was about to escape and leave him be, but he held out the empty water bottle that was on the nightstand. A brief silence passed between them and as fearful as she still was, she understood, heading out to fetch him another, letting out a shaky sigh underneath her breath— _Huh?_

Amelia stopped by the mirror on the wall, which she often used for a quick last-minute check-up on her features before heading out for the day, and noticed a small red stain on her shirt’s collar; was she… Bleeding…? She pushed aside the fabric to check, but found nothing caused by Xanxus on her skin except for a faint pink blotch due to pressure. But then, that meant— Looking back at her guest, he was looking away again, reclined completely and nursing a headache with his fingers against his temple, but she wasn’t too far away to see the small lines of red, darker now that they were drying, along his palm… She didn’t remember seeing them when she brought him in, nor while she worked; strange… _Not only strange, but worrying…_

As for Xanxus, the rage still boiled beneath his skin at the nerve this woman had, regardless if he felt marginally— no, _greatly_ better than before, and her lack of knowledge of personal borders was plain to see… Then again, she didn’t know him, and thus likely to assume he didn’t have any reason to hold any form of intentional aggression towards her, and the type to take her action as a _compliment_ — _disgusting_ — Damn it, he needed to be more careful. Then again, he didn’t care at all, and none of this felt like something _he_ should be guilty for. 

He grimaced, not quite hung-over but definitely dehydrated, and glanced up when the sound of the woman’s footsteps returned and she disappeared into the kitchen, frown deepening when he thought about how annoying it would be to rewrap his residual limb whenever he regained the energy to do it again. _Speaking of which…_

Xanxus’ gaze moved to the large box at the side of the bed. Its contents said otherwise, but a distant memory of ragged fishermen by dirty, fishless docks told him it was a tackle box. He didn’t know where Amelia worked, but inferred it to be some small food business given by the box of goods she had brought back earlier that afternoon, and by the contents of that box itself, most likely a sweet or cake shop. Either way… 

_Why_ the hell did this particular woman need a first aid box _this_ big? 

* * *

The remaining five Varia Officers stood in silence in one of their briefing rooms, in an almost diamond-shaped position; Lussuria faced Belphegor and Mammon, and they all had Levi to the right of them, who was about to give the results of his Lightning Squad’s search for Xanxus to Squalo, on their left. The silence was unnecessarily long with each officer preforming a nervous tic of their own, until Squalo seemed to scornfully remember that all of them, especially Levi, were used to having Xanxus request the start of any report the officers had to give, one of the Boss’ brief moments of neutrality, hell, maybe even of _respect_ and _good manners_. 

He would give Levi neither, his fingers a small amount of force away from splintering the wood of the desk as they drummed on it. 

“Well,” he growled. “Get on with it.” Accordingly, Levi cleared his throat and stood up straighter, as if his next words did not hold as much value as the others would deem otherwise: 

“We’ve searched Courmayeur, Breuil-Cervinia, and Arnad, as well as the areas Boss used to often visit in the region, with no results. He’s not in Aosta, and with what my Lightning Squad has reported from searching Biella, Vercelli, Alessandria and Cuneo, safe to say not in Piedmont entirely. Wherever he’s gone, he’s left nothing behind for us to work with.” 

The silence returned again, this time longer, and much more suffocating. The drumming on the desk continued, sped up, sped up even more, and finally evolved to slamming a curled fist onto its surface. Even if such violence was normal from Squalo, Mammon and the others still braced themselves for what came next— 

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKING _MEAN_ HE’S NOT IN AOSTA— YOU PIECE OF SHIT—” 

“Maybe if you let me cont—” But it was no use, and another loud, heated argument began between the two of them, Levi trying to defend himself with Squalo asserting his dissatisfaction. Lussuria made it a point to stand between them for when it got physical, as it often did with these two in particular, only to struggle as either one continued to yell over his shoulders, and soon enough Squalo shoved him away entirely. 

“Please— that’s eno—” 

“It’s not my fault that—” 

“ _Huh?_ ” And the entire room fell silent again. Mammon felt Belphegor take a small step towards the general direction of the door and understood; if it wasn’t Squalo’s white-hot glare that was unsettling, then it was the fear starting to form a little at a time in Levi’s eyes, a drop of sweat trailing down his pierced face. Squalo spoke first, hackles not quite raised, but rage without a doubt lacing his words as he inched towards the taller officer. 

“Care to repeat that?” 

Levi stayed silent, wondering if the others could hear how loud his heart was hammering despite his even breathing. As much as he wanted to, as much as he resented Squalo, he couldn’t argue with him anymore… Because Squalo was his superior. Unlike Xanxus’ anger and violence, which Levi to this day still had only a _small_ idea of their patterns to thus avoid them as much as possible, Squalo’s were unknown. And he was sure he didn’t want to find out to what extent they would go. 

As much as he wanted to, he could never oppose him. Xanxus expected better of him, after all. And if Xanxus wasn’t here, Squalo was in charge whether he liked it or not. 

So, he looked away, countenance defeated. “Nothing, sir.” 

Squalo responded by delivering a swift, punishing blow to the other’s abdomen which caused everyone else to flinch too, followed by kneeling to Levi with a mocking concern once he doubled over and spitting into his ear; suddenly, the other officers thought, very suddenly, authority looked wrong on the second-in-command. 

_“Remember your place.”_

Not wanting another response from Levi nor the others, Squalo exited the briefing room, but not without also giving a sharp click of the tongue and remarking about the other’s inadequacy, followed by an order to restart the search and expand it. In the seconds after he had left, Lussuria immediately tended to Levi while he internalized his worry about the former’s inability to find Xanxus, despite his skill at his work, and how often he was with the latter, while Mammon realized that Belphegor had also disappeared. _Oh, no._

Floating out of the briefing room, the Arcobaleno managed through simple guessing and having previously familarized themselves with Belphegor’s behavior to find the blonde in his dim, cold room, seated against the wall and sulking. They were uncomfortable with the grip he had on the silver knife in his hand, and contemplated the best possible method of distraction to take it away… Of course. A conversation. 

“Alright, Bel,” they began. “What’s up?” _Ugh._ That was a lot more indirect and awkward than they intended it to. But it seemed to be enough, as the teen’s attention went from the knife to them, in fact his attention was only on Mammon and more. 

“You can find him, right?” 

“Huh—” 

“Thoughtography,” he clarified, tone low in an unfamiliar way. “You can do that.” Mammon paused for a moment, feeling for the roll of paper underneath their robe as if they were unaware of their own powers. 

“That’s… that’s right.” 

“So do it then.” Belphegor twirled the knife once, twice, in his hand, and conveyed more of his annoyance. “This is a waste of time.” 

Mammon would have let out a casual demand of a payment for this service, except this wasn’t that normal situation for them to do so. Instead, their nervousness became visible, as they fidgeted on their feet and kept their hidden gaze moving from the knife to Belphegor’s darkening expression, before they let out a small incomprehensible sound. 

“What did you say?” His expression didn’t change in the slightest, and as a result Mammon stilled. 

“Well—… _Well_. Yes, I _can_ do that. But—” And almost as soon as they said the word they regretted it, finding themselves inches away from the tip of the knife, even though they could evade it with ease. They didn’t like to mess with Belphegor when he threatened someone, because as much as he liked to joke, he was also terrifyingly serious when he wanted to be. 

“But _what_ ,” he said, knife trembling in his tight grip. 

In theory, it would not be an issue at all for Mammon to try to find Xanxus via thoughtography. In fact, in any other circumstance, all the required pieces were in place: even if some of his possessions were missing, there were still plenty of Xanxus’ belongings around the Varia Headquarters to use to locate him; the Varia’s members, although small in number, contained individuals that were fast enough to be able to immediately reach whatever information it revealed; finally, the thoughtography was most of the time foolproof and if it were in any way unsuccessful, Mammon could always try again, or try to decipher whatever code appeared. 

But those circumstances didn’t account for one thing: Mammon’s newly growing body. 

Ever since the Representative Battles with Bermuda, Mammon (and they were _certain_ the other Arcobaleno were experiencing this too, albeit in other ways or, they were unwilling to admit it, like any other weakness, to each other) experienced strong side effects from the large amount of energy they had used in the battles, with illusions proving impossible to conjure without extreme exhaustion or unsatisfactory quality. Moreover, the semi-natural growth of their body induced by the curse’s removal resulted in a strange and cruel punishment where, while it didn’t matter before, strength was now equal to whatever age their body was currently at. So, if there were ever a time Mammon felt useless, it was now, and they weren’t sure how they were supposed to explain all of that to Bel, who the answer wouldn’t please at all. 

But that wasn’t the only reason. 

Mammon gulped as the sensation of Xanxus’ ruby eyes piercing their skull returned to raise the hairs on the back of their neck. They remembered the raw, unbridled emotion in his voice as his hand held them down in a grip they were unsure if his intention with it was to crush or suffocate, the first time they had seen each other in his room after they returned from hospital in Japan. _If you mess up, and something happens to him,_ he had said then, _I’ll make you pay._

The threat was still relevant, with every beat the illusionary heart in Squalo’s chest gave reminding Mammon of it. As long as the Varia were still searching for a donor—although the longest method, it was the most effective, since the black organ market was not worth the heafty cost nor investigating the messed up origins of wherever the heart would come from, as well as the ever-present risk of disease—then Mammon held Squalo’s life in their hands. They once again wondered if the second-in-command realized how much their Boss valued him, but Squalo would never take it seriously if they were the one to tell him. So, they were better off keeping it to themselves. _Boss would have wanted that._

Then, remembering that Belphegor was still waiting for an answer, they let out a pathetic sentence: “It’s… I can’t right now. You won’t get it.” And, as expected, the blonde responded by baring his teeth and throwing the knife in their direction, not hard enough to actually hit them, but enough to cause them to jump back a foot to avoid it as it impaled the carpeted floor. 

“Rude. Thanks for nothing,” he said, and straightened up to shuffle out of the room with his hands deep in his pockets, footsteps heavy and angry. Mammon stood in the empty room berating themselves over their inability in that moment to somehow appease him, before they became aware of the fact they didn’t know what Bel was intending to do now and they were thus frightened—when he was angry, it could be anything— 

“Bel— wait,” they exclaimed, the only other thing on their mind being a silent prayer of _‘Boss, please be okay, I hope we find you soon,’_ before they ran out after him into the long halls of the headquarters, into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  I’m glad I was true to the promise I made to myself of finishing this chapter before my birthday, and only wish at the time of writing this that I wouldn’t be relying on mobile data to upload it, but hey, having it out there and letting my heart rest happy is the best present I could ask for, today.
> 
> Why did it take six months to write this chapter? (Although apparently, the total editing time of this chapter is way less than the previous, which I do admit was very difficult to write—) A combination of school, physical and mental health, and general writer’s block issues. Thankfully, most of those are not issues any more. Writing’s hard, sometimes. But even in those six months of not working on this chapter, I have been doing a lot of writing on the side; remember you could always check me out on Tumblr, as the occasional little things surrounding this fic, like answering questions about characters or plot or even a fully written response and more cool stuff can show up! Anyway; there was a small scene in this chapter that I had to delete, but no worries, it’ll make its way into the next chapter or another one at most. Expect some more Richard!
> 
> In exactly six weeks, it’ll be two years since I uploaded this fic. Wow, time flies. What an eventful two years. Here’s to many more.
> 
> Happy birthday, me. I deserve it.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos, comments, and overall support so far <3 they're always welcome and appreciated!


End file.
